Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Four

In Osbaston stone keep, high on the western foothills of Thrihyrne Mountain, beside the source of the river Adorn, the Dunlending hill people of the Withergield clan gathered in the great hall for celebration and feasting. The boar’s head banners strung along the smoke-darkened rafters stirred in the firelight, and the serving women moved quickly beneath them, bearing food, and brimming horns of ale.

Frecern finished laughing at some joke told by his men, and then strode up the hall towards Wulfgarn, chief of his clan.

Frecern held a mithril decorated gold goblet aloft, slopping the brimming contents. The company cheered him as he passed, banging knife and stein on the dark boards of the great table.

“I bring you riches, Uncle.” Frecern took a drink from the goblet, toasting Wulfgarn. “Arms, gold, mithril.” He turned back to his men, Eohric, Aegel and Cedman, seated near the head of the table in places of honour. “Power.” He drank again to them, and then banged the goblet down in front of the Chief. “Now we will be given back the respect our grandsires gave away. Now we can rise up.”

Wulfgarn inherited his rule when still young, and he was young no longer, so he hid his grave misgivings. He squinted down the table at the enthusiastic warriors; saw the smiles on the faces of his dour folk. People who had lost hope and honour after the debacle with Saruman and had nursed their grievances for four generations, and longer; some still counting the fall of Freca at the hands of Helm Hammerhand a wrong unforgiven.

The repercussions of the raid, carried out with such flair by his nephew, had yet to reach his people. He did not share Frecern’s disdain of the influence wielded by the cursed dwarves. The dwarves had won sovereignty over the hill-folk’s sacred mountain Thrihyrne, and mined the wealth that was rightfully the birthright of the Withergield clan. Wulfgarn could bring himself to see Frecern’s raid as liberation, but he doubted if the King of the Gilded Hall would be likewise inclined.

Wulfgarn had the uncomfortable feeling that the depth of the Adorn valley had suddenly become shallower, and the distance to the Fords of Isen, less.

Wulfgarn lifted his own larger, two-handled, goblet in acknowledgement of the acclaim. He drank and closed his mind to his doubts. Done was done; the treaty forced on his people in respect of Rohan’s sovereignty had never brought his people any good comparable to the wealth that would be brought in when the booty from this raid was traded through the free port of Lond Daer.

Gold winked up at him from the platters lining the table, mithril decorated the cup in front of him and many swords and axes swelled his armoury. The wealth would ensure his clan’s ascendancy for the rest of his time as chief.

Let tomorrow deal with tomorrow; today they were strong, thanks to the special knowledge of how to make the secret blasting powder Frecern had picked up while completing his smithing apprenticeship in the enemy city of Edoras.

For a glorious evening Wulfgarn allowed the dream of reclaiming the lands of his long fathers rule his head and his heart.

**

Hard on the ford of Isen, Aragorn stopped for the night, to camp and reorder his forces. Fifty of his most experienced men he divided off and charged with the task of guarding their Queen on her trip to Rivendell. Throndar might have felt his skills were being under utilised by leading this detail. If so he was quickly apprised of the seriousness of his duty by the extensive and detailed briefing he received from his King.

“Sire,” he managed to interject, finally, as Aragorn looked to be starting all over again. “I promise you. My life, my men’s lives, before harm could come to our Queen.”

Aragorn met his eye.

“Just so, Throndar.”

The Captain saluted, hand to heart. Then stood to attention and waited for Aragorn’s dismissal. The King let his eyes wander along the triple line of his troops drawn up behind the Captain. They were his best- seasoned, battle-scarred, and loyal. They would have to do.

“Do not leave Rivendell until you hear from me, Throndar. I hope to join you, soon. Dismissed.”

The troop turned and marched off with commendable discipline, and Aragorn turned back to his pavilion.

Inside, Arwen looked up from a scroll she had received that morning.

“Celeborn is looking forward to seeing us.”

Aragorn came and sat down beside her. “Your escort will be ready this afternoon.”

Arwen reached and smoothed the lines from his forehead. “I will be safer than I am in our own city, beloved. Why do you worry so?”

“It is my duty. Kings are supposed to worry.”

“Well then, you do it admirably. As you do all things admirably, and I will be safe, and cured, and ready to remind you of Rivendell’s pleasures when you come to collect me.” Arwen leaned forward and kissed him softly on his lips. “Have you heard from Gimli?”

“From Legolas, who is much recovered, and bored with his broken arm. He says he is learning axe craft in return for teaching cross-bow skills to a squad of Gimli’s warriors.” Aragorn fished the scroll from a pile on the elegant camp desk that took up a large part of the tent. He unrolled it to the relevant part, “He says the bowmen can now hit a large target with devastating force, and he can split a hair with his axe at twenty paces. He is not sure which is the more useful skill.”

Arwen laughed merrily. “He has never quite grown up, that Elf. I would be worried if he was sitting, moping.”

Aragorn frowned, as if trying to imagine his mercurial friend, still, for more than a moment, and then smiled himself. “Nay, he sounds as if he will be hale by the time I get there. Or so near hale he will discount any debility.”

“And then you all can deal with these traitorous bandits.”

“Aye.”

“And then you can all come to Rivendell and visit me.”

“Aye.”

“May the luck of the Valar go with you, my love.”

“And the love of your King go with you, Arwen. I will count every day out of your company against those villains we chase.”

*****

A skylark reached for the sky, pouring out its liquid song above Legolas’ head. The tiny bird lifted his stone-weary spirit, so the elf halted his horse, on the last ridge-backed rise before Helm’s Deep, and sought out the ascending dot against the burning blue of the heavens. On the ramparts ahead, banners snapped and strained in the breeze, the White Tree and the Running Horse bright against the grey stone, the glint of sun on armour betraying the positions of the wall and gate guards.

The bulk of the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan were camped, under canvas, in rows, on the grass of the coomb between the curtain wall and Helm’s Dike. The whole area had turned into a small city as the work of maintaining the army and the garrison continued in well-worn campaign mode.

Traffic on the wagon road to Edoras left a pall of white dust that coated the trees lining the river and drew a veil over the details of camp life.

Legolas used the halt to strap the lighter splint that he had convinced Frior would be adequate, back onto his left forearm. His arm bone had knit in under a month, which astonished the dwarven bonesetter, but it had not been fast enough for the restless elf. The arm ached fiercely now, since Legolas had spent the bulk of the day working on novice exercises he normally prescribed to archers in training, trying to work the wasted muscles back into shape for handling his bow. He missed his weapon; the weight of Gimli’s lovingly crafted axe, slung on his back, simply felt wrong.

Ascallon reminded him that she was waiting for instructions by dropping her head to the yellowed grass to graze.

Legolas looked again at the mountains, the buildings of stone and the crowd of humans, and decided to extend his absence a little longer; the afternoon was yet young. He dismounted, and then watched the skylark drop silently into the grass as a hawk ghosted up the hill on an updraft, its head turning on the stable platform of its gliding body to scan the grass for prey, its yellow eye cold and intent.

Legolas reached over his shoulder and unsheathed the axe. Gimli had decorated the double curved blade with an etching of a hawk, wings outspread, and inlaid the hardwood handle with a twining vine of gold. It was both deadly and a work of art, perfectly balanced for his height and strength. The elf hefted it, then threw it spinning up high, catching it out of the air as it descended with his unimpaired elven co-ordination. He smiled to himself as he remembered Gimli’s outrage at the trick.

“Frior can set your bones, foolish Elf, he cannot reattach your limbs.”

Legolas sighted along the edges of the blades. They were keen, but were not his bow.

He flexed his left arm and tested the ache in it. Now it was better supported, it was bearable. He remounted and set off to rejoin the war council, he had heard a rumour, when he had stopped at the village of Ardscull for a draught of well-water this noon, which may yet lead the army to the bandits.

*-*-*-*

Denulf the Carter sniffed the savoury air appreciatively, and then sat himself comfortably at the family dinner table and lifted the brimming tankard of ale his wife had just filled for him. Ealhhild was still working at preparing the evening meal and Denulf felt as smug as any smallholder in Ardscull. He drank deeply and looked around the room, suddenly aware of the absence of his younger two children. Usually Earnulf would at table before him -fourteen-year-old boys took a lot of filling - and Earnulf ever rushed through his chores in terror of missing even part of a meal. Aethel was also not adding her sixteen-year-old sour-faced hindrance to her mother’s cooking efforts. She had not taken kindly to learning the women’s arts after her older sister’s marriage last spring. Ealhhild assured him she would get over it, but it was a distinct, if guilty, relief not to have her sharp tongue and touchy temper in the room for a change. This night he and Ealhhild occupied the living area in adult isolation.

Ealhhild carried the bread over to the table – usually Aethel’s grudged job.

“Where are the girl, and the boy?”

Ealhhild glanced at him as she hurried back to their supper.

“I think, probably, that meeting the Elf has disturbed them,” she remarked with assumed casualness.

Denulf spluttered into his ale. “What?”

“An Elf Lord met us when we were fetching the water from the well. He asked Aethel for a drink, like any other traveller. Earnulf and Aethel have been acting silly ever since.” She bent over to check the progress of the cooking meat, hiding her expression from her husband.

Denulf wondered if he had heard correctly. “An Elf Lord, in Ardscull, in broad daylight?”

“It was noon, dear.” Ealhhild slid the meat onto a large platter, and carried it over to the table. “ He asked for a drink of water, as politely as any other Lord would, politer than most in fact.”

Denulf stared at his wife open mouthed. She returned to the kitchen, pretending to ignore the sensation she was causing.

Denulf sat back and rubbed his forehead. Elves, or at least an elf, riding around in his village, and he was out delivering a new mill wheel to Miller Brand. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

“What did he look like?” he asked helplessly.

Ealhhild brought a dish of vegetables over to the table, put them down, and then leaned her weight against the back of her chair. She glanced at her homely husband again and decided to edit a little, he didn’t need to know of the visitor’s unearthly beauty, and she would keep that image for her own secret dreams. “He was tall, blond, dressed like a warrior. He was carrying a dwarven axe on his back, and he had two long white-handled knives at his belt. He looked a little battered actually, had some fading scars, here, “ she waved a casual hand across the side of her face and neck. “You noticed his ears, the points,” she picked her own ear up in demonstration. Denulf still looked bewildered so Ealhhild continued. “ He rode a pretty grey mare, it had bells on its neck strap, but he rode with no saddle or bridle. Don’t know how he controlled her but he didn’t seem to have any trouble. He drank the ladle of water that Aethel drew for him, passed the time of day with us in a friendly enough way for a few minutes, and then he rode off.”

She pushed herself upright again and went to the door, opened it and yelled for the two missing children. “Aethel, Earnulf, dinner!”

“What did he do to the children then?” Denulf was slowly catching up with the afternoon’s events, and the idea that legends could come to life in the middle of his village.

Ealhhild snorted. “He asked for what news was current about the bandit attacks, and Aethel chatted to him about the comings and goings of folk up into the hills and so on, told him about her brother-in-law’s theories about the Withergield clan and their grievances, bored him to tears no doubt. Then Earnulf managed to find the courage to ask the Elf about his horse and his lack of tack, and he was kind enough to spare a word or two for him, he took him up to the mare and introduced him as if she could understand his every word, and what do I know? Perhaps she could.” Ealhhild sat herself down at the table and reached for the bread, breaking a lump off and then handing the loaf to her husband. “ He hopped back on his beast, after bowing his thanks to me and to Aethel, as if we were ladies, and then he was gone.”

She took a mouthful of bread and then reached to serve her husband some vegetables. “Aethel has been in a dream ever since; she’s probably shut herself in the henhouse and left the hens to roam. Earnulf has been annoying his pony all afternoon trying to ride him without any tack, so I suspect he is walking home after Stybba’s finally dumped him somewhere in a bramble bush.”

She blinked at her husband. “Eat man, and enjoy the peace. The elf’s a five minute wonder and dinner will get cold if you don’t pay attention to it.”

Denulf shook his head; the inn would be lively tonight. He tucked into his dinner; he would need the ballast to soak up the ale that would prise this tale out of him in the common room. Such doings there never was.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared